


Dreams

by MsImpala67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dirty Talk, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 17:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11018493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsImpala67/pseuds/MsImpala67
Summary: While Sam is possessed by Meg, she lets some of his secrets out of the bag.





	Dreams

Sam’s still in the bathroom.   


It’s become Sam’s habit to stay in the bathroom until he thinks Dean’s fallen asleep. Or to stay out, needing to grab some food or something. Or to just not say anything at all, just disappear from the room and come sneaking in once the lights are off. 

Anything to keep from talking about it.   


Not that Dean wants to talk about it anyway. He’s just as happy as Sam to never mention the whole fucking thing.   


Except the part where Sam’s in love with Dean.   


Obviously, demons make shit up, and Meg could have just been fucking with Dean, confessing all kinds of things that weren’t true while she was in Sam’s body. But the way she talked about it was just so gleeful, like she had stumbled upon a real prize with that tidbit of information.   


“You’re all he can think about,” she’d told Dean, making Sam’s voice rise with a teasing lilt as she spoke with his tongue. “Deep, dirty thoughts about all the things he wants to do to you. All the things he wants you to do to him. Wanna hear some of them?”  


Dean had ignored her, but she’d just gone on about waking up with sticky sheets after having a dream about big brother, about how often Sam shivered just because Dean touched him.   


And yeah, that was something Dean couldn’t forget.   


Was she telling the truth?  


Part of Dean knows she couldn’t have been. But the other part has to wonder, why make it up? And if was all bullshit, why hasn’t Sam been able to look him in the eye?  


Dean stares at the bathroom door, undoubtedly unlocked even though Sam’s hiding in there, because they don’t trust locked doors between them.   


And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it?   


There is something between them, something codependent and unhealthy, something more than brothers.   


Dean doesn’t know when he fell in love with Sam. Maybe it was when he heard Meg say the words. Maybe it was when he was four years old and he was the only thing standing between Sam and a fiery death as John urged him to run.   


But he is. He’s in love with Sam.   


And now he’s stuck in another fucking motel room in another fucking mid-western state with three television channels and a bunch of cornfields and nothing else.   


If it hadn’t been for that demon bitch, Dean probably could have kept this shit pushed down where it belonged, way down deep where no one had to deal with it and he didn’t have to feel like some fucked up freak.   


But now all he can think about is that Sam might just be fucked up enough to feel the same way.   


And Dean can’t ignore that.  


Slowly, he gets off the bed and pads in socked feet over to the bathroom door. 

The shower’s running, but it has been for a long time and he knows Sam isn’t in it. “Sammy?”  


He knocks twice, and gets no answer.   


“Sammy, come on, come out here.”  


Again, nothing.   


“Sam, I swear to God, I’ll break the door down.”  


“You know it isn’t locked.” The quiet answer sounds so calmly irritated with him, and it’s so _Sam_ that it makes Dean’s chest hurt, makes him heave a sigh of relief against the cheap wood before he turns the handle and swings the door open.   


Sam’s sitting on the closed toilet, hair wet, boxers the only clothes on his body. 

Dean reaches in the shower and turns it off.   


“Get out of the bathroom and go to bed,” Dean tells him.   


“I don’t want to talk about it.”  


“Who said anything about talking?” Dean asks, turning away and heading out into the main room.   


Slowly, Sam follows.   


“So, you’re really just going to let this go?”  


Dean shrugs, flops down on his bed. “Let what go? Meg’s gone, you’re safe, end of story.”  


“But what she said…”  


Dean waits, every muscle in his body tensing, waiting for what Sam might confess. Honestly, he isn’t sure if he wants him to. But part of him needs him to.   


Sam just switches off the light and gets in his own bed, turning away from Dean.  


Neither of them sleep. Dean listens to a couple on the street having an argument. Sam tosses and turns in his bed, and every now and then, Dean lets himself glance over at his long body, stretched out on top of the covers in the hot room.   


“Sammy?” he finally whispers, when it’s so late that nothing seems real anyway.   


“Yeah?”  


“Do you really have dreams about me?”  


“Everyone dreams about people they know, Dean,” he says carefully, eyes opening to stare out at nothing.   


“You know what I mean. Dreams like what Meg said.”  


Silence. Dean thinks for a few minutes that Sam is just ignoring him or trying to think of a way to answer, then he thinks he might have actually fallen asleep.   


“Yeah, Dean,” comes Sam’s small voice, sounding very much like he did twenty years ago. “I do.”  


Dean takes his time answering just like Sam did. He stares at the shadowy shapes of furniture in the room, lets the dark silence of the night creep into him and take him someplace else, a place where it’s okay to be having this conversation.  


“That’s okay, Sammy,” he finally says.   


“Is it?” Sam snorts sarcastically. “Because in my mind, it’s pretty fucked up.”  


“Well. We were always fucked up, weren’t we?”  


Dean can hear the smirk when Sam answers. “Yeah, I guess we were.”  


That should be the end of it. They should both go to sleep and pretend this night never happened. But Dean thinks about sliding into the Impala tomorrow, Sam close enough to reach out and touch, and he can’t be quiet.  


“Tell me about them.”  


“What?”  


“One of your dreams. Pick one. Tell me about it.”  


“Fuck, Dean, _no_! We can’t really talk about this.”  


“Sure we can, Sammy. I want to.”  


He knows Sam heard _I want to_ , knows that he picked up on his tone. Hopefully it’s enough, and Sam will realize that he’s not alone in this. Never has been.  


“You sure?”  


There it is. Dean recognizes the same tone in Sam’s voice.  


“Yes. Tell me.”  


Neither of them move, neither look at the other as Sam speaks.  


“Well, uh, I guess they’re just...wet dreams.”  


“Yeah, I picked up on that, genius. Describe one.”  


“Um. A lot of times I can’t really...there’s not a lot to focus on. Just you.”  


“And what am I doing?”  


“All kinds of things.”  


Dean opens his mouth to make another smart ass comment about how talkative Sam isn’t at the moment, but Sam cuts him off.  


“No, really! The dreams...uh, they’re never really chronological, if that makes sense? Just a lot of random moments and feelings.”  


“Then just tell me your favorite.”  


Sam shifts around a little. “My favorite is in the Impala.”  


“Yeah?” That makes Dean grin a little. “What are we doing?”  


“Just kissing at first.”  


That’s the line. The one they’ve just crossed and the one they can’t come back from. Sam’s actually fucking said it out loud, and Dean knows now without a doubt that he wants this. That he’s desperate for it. That he’s two seconds away from throwing himself on top of Sam’s long body and tasting every inch of it.   


Instead, he just inhales.   


“That’s it? Kissing? Pretty tame.” He wants to see how far he can push this, what words he can get out of Sam’s mouth.   


“I said at first.” He hears the petulance there, the rise to the challenge, because his Sammy isn’t about to be outdone.  


“And then what?”   


“And then you start telling me how much you want me. How you want to touch me.” The words are halting, like Sam’s still nervous about this, and it makes Dean’s cock ache in his jeans. He wishes he had undressed for bed before he started all of this.  


“And do you let me touch you?”  


“Yeah.” Sam’s swallow is so loud Dean hears it across the room. “You take my shirt off. And, uh, yeah. You touch me.”  


“And then?” Dean manages somehow to form words, but he knows Sam can hear the weakness of his voice, the hoarseness of it.  


“And then I start begging you to let me touch _you_.”  


“Begging?”  


Sam clears his throat, but there’s no hiding the heat now, no hiding the neediness. “I always beg you. In the dreams.”  


Dean sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and looks at Sam. He’s stretched out still, staring up at the ceiling, and he doesn’t look at Dean.   


God, he’s beautiful. Dean’s always loved him, always thought he was special and brilliant and kind and perfect. But right now, Dean’s focusing on the beautiful part. Dean knows there are rock-hard muscles underneath that tan skin, knows how tall and strong he is, how his eyes sparkle and his dimples pop when he smiles. But that’s not it.   


It’s his hands.   


His hands are folded over his stomach, long fingers linked together. And for the life of him, Dean wants those hands on his own body.   


“Tell me what you beg me to do, Sammy.”  


Sam finally turns his head, eyes glittering in the barely there light and shakes his head. Like he can’t do this.  


“Come on,” Dean says louder. “Do it. Show me how you beg me in your dreams.”  


Sam’s eyes widen as Dean very carefully moves his hand, lets Sam watch as he palms over the crotch of his jeans, closing his eyes and sighing just enough to be heard.  


That seems to finally get through to Sam, and he moves to sit up, throws his legs over the side of the bed and just keeps going until he’s kneeling on the carpet, crawling toward Dean. “I beg you to let me suck you off. To let me taste you. To let me feel you inside of me. I beg you to fuck me.”  


He gets to Dean’s legs and reaches out like he’s going to touch him, then freezes, a look of panic on his face.  


“Oh, God, Dean, I just...we can’t...I’m so sorry.” He looks like he’s about to cry, and it cuts straight through Dean’s sex haze and into his heart.   


“Shhh, Sammy.” He reaches out and pushes the hair out of Sam’s face, runs his hand down the side of Sam’s face. “It’s okay. Touch me.”  


Sam blinks up at him with wet eyes. “But.”  


“I know. It’s okay,” he repeats. “You don’t have to beg me. I’ll let you do anything you want. And Sammy?”  


“Yeah?”  


“You aren’t dreaming now.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! XOXO


End file.
